A Death Kiss of Vengeance

Prologue

RICHARD ASHWORTH

SIX MONTHS AGO

Acrow lands outside my window, piercing into the meat I’ve left there. I’ve long had an affinity for the obsidian creatures. The way they tear and devour, unaware of the reputation it garners.

If anyone knew the depth of my personal desires for innocent flesh, not to eat, of course, but to devour all the same, I’d be seen as unfavourably as the carrion birds.

My tea is too hot as I sip it while staring at the crow.

Retirement would be utterly boring if it weren’t for my extracurricular activities.

I like to think they keep me young, especially now that I’m a widower.

Barely one month into retirement, I discovered how much I truly hated my wife of forty years.

Mary was fine when she was young and dumb.

A pretty piece of eye candy that made a perfect policeman’s wife.

Her smooth limbs and sweet face amused me for a while, back then, but with each year she advanced, she grew more repulsive.

I couldn’t fuck her when she hit twenty-five. Hell, she didn’t even give me kids. At least she provided optics. Baked pies for the station. Was pleasant with the other wives.

When I worked all day and spent most evenings indulging in my proclivities, the years went on without much fuss. Until I retired.

Everything about her made my skin crawl. This wrinkled, fussy, demanding woman was taking up my space.

So I’d pushed her down the stairs.

Twice.

The first fall hadn’t finished the job.

Being in the force taught me enough to time a trip to the shops with her succumbing to her injuries. Playing the distraught husband gave me a deliciously jolly buzz.

And now I have the house to myself.

There’s a rustle from my bedroom.

Mostly.

The smell of the newspaper makes me sigh as I unfold it, letting my tea cool and nodding at the crow who eyes me.

‘Don’t mind me, budd—’

The headline about a missing university man doesn’t faze me, but the picture below it makes my chest seize. Those haunted eyes are ones I know all too well. It’s been years, but I still remember Sam. His sobs were my favourite. Like a wounded puppy yelping with every thrust.

God, what I’d give to go back for one more play.

But Sammy boy is missing. Which in itself wouldn’t be so bothersome; he’s not the first of our toys to lose his mind to drugs or alcohol, or struggle to move past the time we spent together.

It’s inevitable.

Sam being missing is barely a blip. Except for what happened to Pete. Pulling myself upright, I go to my study and open the desk drawer where I keep all relevant articles.

Pete’s smiling face looks back at me. Such a jovial picture next to such rotten headlines. Tortured. Burned. Murdered.

I hoped that he’d pissed someone else off, but with Sam missing, the cords around my carefully constructed ring of deviants are tightening into a noose.

Being retired means I have no insider knowledge of what the police know, and no way to derail them if they head down the right path.

The path that leads right to my door. Or worse, whoever killed Pete might come after me next.

Not a situation I’m willing to leave to chance.

Getting back in as a consultant would be difficult, but luckily I’ve kept a few favours up my sleeve. Most notably, the woman who took my job, Jennifer, owes me her fucking career after I made a sackable offence disappear.

Dialling her office, I walk through my house, unbuckling my belt as I go. ‘Hello Greg, could you put me through to DS Lewis?’

He puts me on hold while he goes to find her, right as I yank my belt from the loops, smiling as I see the small pair of feet sticking out from beneath my bed flinch. He knows the noise well enough after three days.

The soles still, trying so very hard not to be seen. I chuckle to myself. I paid good money for this one, and I’ll be sad to let him go so soon. But going back to work would leave him too many opportunities to find a way out.

Such a waste.

Still, the buzz of excitement already rises in me. There’s nothing in this world that hits like taking someone else out of it. Especially someone with so much life still to live. My wife’s death hadn’t brought even a glimmer of what killing usually did. She was too old. Too worthless.

Guilt has never cropped up, in the traditional sense, but I do feel anger at the monumental waste of disposing of a toy so recently procured. Especially one so lovely. And finding whoever is ruining my fun and using my anger to make him cry like a little bitch, is my top priority.

A sob sounds from beneath the bed before the phone line clicks live. ‘Ah, DS Lewis, just the woman I need. I think I can help with one of your live cases.’

The body beneath the bed wriggles and tries to scream, but the sound is well muffled. I’m rock solid, having him struggle so desperately while I’m on the phone with other officers.

A delicious taboo.

Jennifer invites me to come in for a chat today.

I slap my belt against the edge of the bed, grinning. ‘Of course, there’s just a little matter I need to take care of first.’